Ghost

a short story by Lia Lao

It’s unfamiliar, waking up alone.

The king-sized bed feels too large for a single person. Half the wardrobe is empty—plastic coat-hangers gleaming bright as bone—and the silence is stifling. No bubbling kettle, no clinking china. The entire apartment screams of his absence, yet there’s no trace of him to be found.

The fingerprints on the toaster. The spilled shampoo in the shower. Gone. Every crook and cranny is spotless as if no one were here all along. Did he steal away in the night while I was sleeping? Or did he leave in broad daylight, unashamed of his crime?

I stare at the ceiling until my vision blurs and my head throbs. Still—no answer.

These days, everything feels like a conspiracy.

I look through our photos, searching for clues. Is his smile strained? The position of his arm, awkward? I’ve torn up and taped together the pictures so many times, they’ve started falling apart. The angle of my head is off. His gaze doesn’t quite meet mine. We look like two paper dolls barely held together with cheap glue.

Is this what we were all along? Two children playing make-believe—an awkward phase to outgrow?

He certainly seems to think so.

His online posts have been scrubbed clean. It’s as if I never existed at all, not a single hair nor shadow to be found.

He’s moved to the better part of town, right by the waterfront where the lights glimmer like broken glass. He must have gotten a flashy new job. Or better yet, found some glamorous lover to take him in.

I glance at his most recent photo, a shot of him leaning against a bridge. With his crisp coat and silken shirt, he looks like a gothic hero—Dorian Gray in full colour. His cheeks are flushed from the cold, tinted with a dusty pink, and the sight makes my skin burn. How I long to feel the heat of his lips. How I long to wrap my hands around his throat.

I go back to the library where we met all those months ago.

The scene is so familiar I could paint it from memory. The long table right by the window. The oaks twisted together. Tomes of history books shielding me from view and the luxury of silence—no sound except the scratch of my pen against paper.

It was as if I were in my own world. My surroundings faded to grey, the passers-by became background blurs. Gone was the harsh winter wind. No, at that moment, I sat in a garden, clad in the finest silks. The scent of roses wafted in the air, and a platter of pastries lay gleaming to my left. To my right was my lover, tall, dark and—

“Excuse me,” a voice said. “You dropped this.”

I almost jumped. The words were cold water and I started, disorientated by the sudden awakening. I looked up. My body froze.

Green eyes tinged with gold, a charmingly crooked smile—it was like he had come straight out of an artwork. Every detail was perfectly placed. The aristocratic slope of his nose, the way his long hair was slicked back. He was a Renaissance painting come to life. My knees felt weak. I wanted nothing more than to sink to the ground and kneel before him.

I nodded dumbly, taking the pen.

“Sorry,” I said. “I don’t really pay much attention when I’m writing.”

It had been freezing that day, windows double-glazed with frost. Yet, when I felt his hand upon mine, I couldn’t help cursing my gloves.

“I can tell,” he said. “You didn’t even notice when I sat down beside you.”

He glanced over my shoulder, studying my sprawling notes.

“What are you working on?”

I flinched.

I didn’t talk about my writing. It was an unspoken rule. I filled up journals and boarded them away, a sacrifice at the moths’ altar. Yet here he was, looking like a classical hero, and I wanted to spill my guts.

“Well, it’s a romance novel,” I finally said. “But it’s more than that, it’s—”

I thought it would be different this time. I thought he was different.

I had always been an observer. In my head, my words flowed like quicksilver. Yet my tongue was clumsy and leaden and nothing ever came out the way I wanted. My silence was taken for arrogance, my insecurity interpreted as coldness. By the time I had found the words to explain myself, everyone else had already gone.

So, I resigned myself to playing the background role. Nameless and faceless, my only purpose was to make others shine.

But he—he looked at me as if I mattered. No longer was I the ghost girl in the corner; I had materialised into flesh and bone. My complexion gained a champagne glow. The bags under my eyes disappeared. It was as if I were a mirror and his refracted light rendered me luminous.

Infatuated, I wrote and wrote and wrote—

Then, the story fell apart.

No note, no final goodbye. I was a desperate occultist, searching for an omen in the void. I charted the trajectory of the stars, found meaning in my wilted tea leaves. It was no use. He had already disappeared and no twist of fate could bring him back to me.

My best friend lives halfway across the world but calls me twice a week to make sure I’m okay. I don’t tell her about the stars. She’ll think I’ve gone mad.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m getting better.”

The white lies slip from my tongue, spinning into gossamer. I tell her about my non-existent therapist, her sharp bob and black glasses. I take photos of my carnations, vibrant as freshly spilled blood. I say I’m writing more than ever. My journal overflowing, the novel almost completed.

Still, my mask cracks.

“Listen,” she says one night. “I couldn’t say this before, but I never liked him. All these months of dating and we didn’t meet once. Did he think he was too good for us? Too good for you?”

“What? No.” The retort comes out too fast, my syllables a fraction sharp. “You were just never in town, and he was so busy—”

“If he cared—”

“Of course he did—”

“—he would’ve made an effort.”

There’s a pause.

I want to tell her she’s wrong. I want to shake her, fingers clawing into her shoulders, until she takes back her words. Instead, I bite my tongue. She wouldn’t understand. She’s never felt his touch, little flames dancing all over her skin.

“Look,” I say at last. “Maybe you have a point. Good thing he’s gone then, right?”

But the truth is, he’s never really gone.

I can’t afford a therapist, so I end up ranting at the bar down the street. I rewrite our ending over and over. He lost his keys. Retrograde amnesia—that’s it. No, no—maybe, he was kidnapped. He sacrificed himself to protect me. My tales grow taller and taller as the night goes on, stretching to preposterous heights.

By the time I’m finished, the bartender just slides me a drink across the counter.

“Here,” he says. “It looks like you need this.”

I laugh, twirling the glass in my hand.

“Do you think I’ve lost it?”

He stares blankly in response. I search for a tell. I notice his eyes are green, and I feel sick to my stomach. A brilliant, emerald green, just like—

“I have to go.”

I push myself away from the counter. My voice doesn’t tremble, but my legs are shaking. I feel like I’m walking on knives. One little misstep and I’ll slice myself open.

That night, I dream of leaving him behind.

I’m in the arms of a stranger. Her face is blank but her skin is warm. I lean in close, pressing my body against hers. I can hear her heart pounding, a sharp staccato.

“What’s wrong?” I say, cupping her face in my hands. She shields away, shivering.

“It hurts.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “It hurts so much.”

Then, her eyes roll back into her head.

She starts to twitch all over, convulsing like a broken puppet. Her skin stretches. It’s pulled so thin it’s transparent, and with a start, I realise there are shadows writhing underneath. They’re moving, I think, they’re alive. There’s something trapped inside her and it’s trying to get out.

I scream.

There’s a sickening squelch. Tendons tear apart like tissue, fingers clawing out from the flesh. I stumble back, trying to run. But it’s too late. It’s already emerging. Long limbs lunge for my throat and my entire body goes limp. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I can only stare, stupefied, as I take in the sight before me.

A sadistic symmetry, so beautiful it chills me to the bone.

It’s him. It’s him. It’s always him.

His hands tighten around my neck, and I wake up, gasping for air. I can still feel his touch on my skin. It burns, a branding iron hot against my throat.

Half-delirious with sleep, I call my friend. My mouth is dry and I’m not sure I can speak. Even so, I need to hear her voice.

“Do you think I’m cursed?”

I can hear static crackling on the other end of the phone. I try again.

“You know, like resentful energy. Unresolved tension.” My tongue darts out to wet my lips. “We never got any closure. And maybe until that happens, I won’t be able to move on.”

She sighs. I can picture her rubbing her temples, a tiny crease between her brows.

“So, what are you suggesting? Are you going to track him down? Meet up with him in person?”

“Maybe it could help—”

“Listen,” she says, her voice gentle but firm. “I don’t think closure exists. Everyone wants a happy ending. Everyone wants loose ends to tie up nicely, the story to resolve. But it doesn’t work like that. Not in real life. 

“I think,” she pauses. “I think you need to let go. He’s not coming back—not now, not ever. And maybe it’s for the best.”

I grip the phone tighter, my knuckles bleached white.

“I know, I know.” I sound too sharp, too shrill. “But it’s not about that. I just want to talk to him. I just want to see his face.”

“But it’ll destroy you.”

Silence. Seconds tick by and neither of us knows what to say. Finally, she takes a deep breath.

“Don’t—just don’t. We’ve been here before. We know how this ends.”

I swallow, a lump forming in my throat.

“I have to,” I say. “You don’t understand. I have to.”

My hand shakes as I hang up the phone. I hear it ring again, the tone tinny and dissonant, but I smother it under my sheets. Good. I think as the sound sputters out. Good. And despite everything, I can’t help but smile.

Finding him is simple. He never turns off location sharing and I track his movements for days, watching him dash across the map. He’s busy, running from sleek offices to French cafés and dive bars. But no matter what, he always returns to one place.

24 Firwood Street.

Even just saying the name sends shivers down my spine. Soon, I’ll be able to see him. Soon, I’ll be able to hear his voice. He’s so close I can almost smell his scent—that heady ambrosia, that delightful poison.

My footsteps quicken.

I practice my lines over and over. I missed you. I can’t live without you. I’m sorry. I’d do anything to have you back. It’s as if the words are an incantation, and with every utterance, I feel more charming, more convincing, more alive. I smooth down my dress, savouring the caress of silk against my skin. I stand taller, back straight as a dancer. I paint my lips a startling red.

He may have left me, I think, but he hasn’t met the new me yet.

I reach his door, exhaling slowly. This is where it begins—the rest of my life. I give myself a moment, taking it all in. The sweeping architecture, the crumbling stone steps. I stare at the spire, the great marble columns. It’s as if I’m standing in front of a church, worshipping the divine.

I look to the second story and there’s a silhouette in the window. It’s him. It must be him.

His figure is so familiar. Those long legs, those narrow hips—every part of him is perfectly proportioned, a sculpture come alive. Insatiable, I drink him in. I trace the lines of his fingers. I claw into those sculpted thighs. I see myself grovelling at his feet, his hands twisted in my hair. My face flushes. I don’t need forgiveness. I just need to feel his touch.

My hand moves on its own, pressing the doorbell. My heart beats faster, pounding against my ribs. I can’t believe I’m going to see him. I can’t believe I’m finally here—

No response.

I pace back and forth. Maybe it’s a mistake. Maybe he hadn’t heard it the first time.

I ring again. And again, just to make sure.

Then, the door swings open.

I stare, mesmerised. He’s wearing nothing but a bathrobe, the satin clinging like a second skin. A drop of water runs down his collarbone. My eyes follow it, ravenous. I fight the urge to lick it off, to bite down hard on his throat.

A moment passes. He’s the first one to speak.

“You’re… the girl from the library, aren’t you?”

His voice. Oh, his voice. I had forgotten how sweet it was, warm and rich like honey. I nod slowly, half-awake, half-dreaming.

“Yes. Yes, that’s me.”

“How did you know where I—”

I place my hand on his chest.

“It’s so good to see you,” I say, pressing up against him. I’m so close I can feel his pulse mirroring mine. “I missed you so much.”

He takes a step back, grabbing my hand by the wrist. He’s gotten shy, I think, how precious. A few months apart, and he’s forgotten how to act around me.

“You know—the library. You stopped coming all of a sudden.”

“It’s too far away.” His words are clipped. “I don’t live there anymore.”

“Because of your new job?”

He blanches, dropping my hand entirely. I step in, looping my hands behind his neck.

“I’m so proud of you—you’re doing so well! Moving to a bigger firm, junior to senior—”

“How did you— ”

“Is everything ok?”

A voice calls out from inside, a deep baritone. Is that his roommate? Is that why he can afford a house like this? I crane my neck, searching for the source but he blocks my way.

“Yeah, don’t worry,” he says, but his voice is strained. “I’ll join you in a minute.” He turns back to me.

“Listen,” he begins. His words are careful as if tiptoeing on glass. “This isn’t right. You shouldn’t be here. You need to go home.”

“But this is my home.” I pull him in closer, my hands clutching the collar of his robe. I need to make him understand. “My home is wherever you are. I need you. I need to be by your side. Just tell me what I did wrong and I’ll—”

“This is wrong.”

He gives me a hard shove. My skin slices open, blood smeared red against stone.

“Go,” he says. “Go, and never come back.”

He towers over me, red-hot with fury. His robe slips down one side, and I can see the shape of his shoulder, hard as steel. He could kill me, I think, my pulse thundering. He could sear off my skin with a touch.

Still, I can’t stop myself.

I grab onto his leg. I won’t let go. I can’t let go. My knees scrape against the ground, skin coming off in scratches. Yet, I can hardly feel anything at all.

“I can’t.” The words come out hysterical, halfway between a sob and a scream. “I can’t have you leave me again. I can’t go back to that empty apartment. Please don’t leave me, please—”

A sharp kick between my ribs. Pain blooms through my chest and I fall to the ground, sputtering.

“Leave you?” He says, his mouth pulled into a sneer. He laughs, but his eyes are cold, empty as a dead fish. “I don’t even remember your name.”

The door slams behind him, rattling through my bones. I can taste copper on my tongue, salt running down my face in unseemly streaks. Yet, there’s something else too. There’s a heat in my veins—white-hot, a thousand embers burning.

He’ll come around. I know he will.

I think of his glare—bright and terrible like a dying star. I think about the way he handled me, fondling my flesh under the illusion of violence. Love and hate. Hate and love. They’re twin shadows dancing around a flame. One tiny flicker and they’ll meld into each other. One small spark, that’s all he needs.

A smile splits across my face like bone cracked open.

He’ll come around. I’ll make sure he does.

Lia Lao is a speculative fiction writer, born in New Zealand and currently residing in Australia. This is her first published work. Follow her on Twitter for future updates @thelialao